


Bal Masqué

by craple



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Barebacking, Birthday Sex, Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, Rimming, subtlety isn't one of my fortes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday isn’t about getting what you want or what you <i>think</i> you want, but appreciating what you get, no matter how pretentious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bal Masqué

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyphosYst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyphosYst/gifts).



> HAPPY ~~LATE~~ VALENTINE'S DAY!!!
> 
> so, uhm, sorry. this is late. and this fic has been lurking around one of my sub-folders since valentine, a gift i promised for the lovely Myphosyst. this is mostly the guilt-trip after rearranging all the shit i have in my laptop talking, but it's not like me to refuse writing porn so. actually this is just another reason for me to write hot barebacking sex. the rimming twice-in-a-row has something to do with the teen wolf fandom, which. yeah.
> 
> anyway, enjoy the ride. ~~pun intended~~

Alfred’s face is carefully blank, politely so, but set in a determined line that Tim translates as _‘you are not getting out of this one, young man’_.

Usually, either Dick or Damian is on the receiving end of this look. Dick has even called it ‘The Alfred Look No One Can Impersonate’. It’s written on the diary he claims to his deathbed of not having, Tim knows because he’s _read_ it, all one hundred and two pages of chicken-shit handwriting and graphic description of sorts concerning Barbara’s strawberry blonde hair or Damian’s blue, _blue_ eyes.

First, priorities. Alfred’s hands are still raised just beneath his chin, fingers curling around the deep crimson silk of the button-down shirt, perfectly fitting for Tim’s lithe slender body. Even the height and the length of the sleeves are the right size.

The trousers, however, are not. For once, it is a bit tighter than the ones Tim wears daily – when he’s not on patrol, mind you, since spandex _barely_ counts as clothes material, for all intents and purposes – and it’s. Snug. Like a second skin of sorts, only, _silks_.

It also makes his thighs look absolutely _fantastic_.

Which, _um_.

He checks his reflection in the mirror, tries to set his face as blank as one possibly could. It’s not. Tim’s face is the epitome of _horrified as fuck_. It is not an attractive look. He will loathe the day when Alfred reminds him of this look, _for reasons_.

Plus – the fact that Alfred _knows_ his size, knows how to make him look, oh dear, _obscene_ while wearing an appropriate amount of _decent_ clothes he’s practically covered from head to toes – is not just creepy, it is downright _frightening_.

Next, Tim looks at the tie placed neatly on the black cotton cushion seat, staring at him innocently. As if it is not designed _specifically_ , he might add, eerily _similar_ with the tie used as an image cover for _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , sans the colour.

(Yes, he _has_ read the novel; he is a _curious_ person, a reason which he shall use to justify his action on further inspection. Inspection as in ‘Dick Finds Out, Not Letting Tim Live This Down’ inspection.)

And – Tim is aware that he’s staring, fear and awe and horrified and confused whether or not the knowledge that Alfred, his seventy-something butler slash the person he cares about but also frightens of most, reads _Fifty Shades of Grey_. There must be a guide book for situation similar to this somewhere. Tim is sure of it.

“Alfred,” Tim begins tentatively, clears his throat, looks away. “Is there any reason why my trousers are... _not_ the right size? Also,” taking the tie between his fingers carefully – out of curiosity, he reasons – Tim slides his thumb down the length, feeling dirty and unwashed and ashamed. He clears his throat again. “Why does this tie look, _suspiciously_ , like the one from _Fifty Shades of Grey_?”

“Master Drake,” says Alfred, snatches a nearby hanger from Tim’s traitorously open-wide wardrobe then hangs the shirt in front of the human-sized mirror by the window. “I have _no_ idea in the slightest of what you are referring to.”

_Lies_ , Tim wants to says, _you are a Lying Liar who Lies, Alfred_ , though he _can’t_ seem to, because – after years of trained detective skills and reading people and taking psychology classes – Alfred gives _nothing_ to prove his lies. He looks as innocent as a newborn baby.

Taking a cautious step back, Tim says, “Dick is not going to – _I_ am not going to live this down, Alfred.” Tim reaches for the window, unlocks it as casually as he can manage while he is having a mental freak out, which is not very. “I am _not_ wearing that tonight.”

Alfred nods. “Of course you’re not, Master Drake. The jacket is horrible. Which is why, you are wearing _this_ ,” and by _this_ , the butler reveals a long crimson coat, a tad shade darker than the shirt is, with the bottom cut crescent-shape.

Its length is six centimetres below his knees, from his prediction. A black leather belt is hooked around the position of where his hips should be, a pitch black rose marring the right breast pocket of the coat.

No, protesting won’t suffice; Tim is _getting the hell out of here_. But, manners, he can do, especially to the person who’s been taking care of him. “Still not wearing them tonight, Alfred.” Tim says, _tells_. Voice hard and a bit edgy as he creeps closer toward the windowsill.

Sighing as if he has been expecting this, Alfred tries, “At least would you _please_ see the mask? The tailor has been preparing it for _weeks_ , and I am proud to say that I’m one of the major doers in the making.”

From the earnest look on Alfred’s face, Tim relaxes, a bit. He nods. Alfred eagerly struts to the box wrapped in black and red on top of the comforter, undoes the ribbons, and takes the mask on display.

Upon seeing the mask, Tim flushes – as red as the shirt, probably redder than the _coat_ itself – then demands the higher power above in colourful sorts of curses what has he done wrong.

Alfred beams.

\--

Knowing Alfred, Tim guesses the party is going to be (another) best Wayne Birthday Party as of yet. He knows that Bruce doesn’t have any part on the planning, except for the budget, because that man can’t make a good party for shit.

Bruce’s gift will be extraordinarily expensive yet also thoughtful; always has a meaning behind it one way or another, unlike the ones his parents used to give him – meaningless, empty, devoid of emotions. There is no sense of love in every single present they gave, but Bruce, despite his brooding demeanour, _actually_ cares.

Tim has expected something worse than an actual horse being in the room. It is, after all, a costume party of sorts.

A chocolate fountain standing six foot high with colourful blinking lights plastered to a couple of connected sign board that says _‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIMMY!’_ is definitely not one of them.

Roses of various kinds are wrapped around every single pillar in the Wayne manor. Bruce’s bland choices of plain white curtains or cream ones have been replaced with dark, roses-patterned ones; all made of silk, parting elegantly to reveal the flawless (known to be bullet-proof) windows.

Several dark red royal tapestries hanging on the wall beside the newly bought antique lamps, along with thick black and red ribbons are what distract him the most. He’s known that Alfred is planning for his birthday to be _different_ – Damian’s birthday involved a lot of candies and Star War movie collections, and he’s pretty sure Bruce’s gift to him is three sets of The Godfather, Blade, and Star Trek DVDs, respectively – he didn’t expect to be _this_ different.

Like, if the ridiculously childish happy birthday sign near the chocolate fountain isn’t there, people might think its _Bruce’s_ birthday instead of _his_.

“Heeey!” a voice announces loud from the crowd. “ _There’s_ the birthday boy!”

Choruses of applauses echo through the room. There are claps, and congratulations, and Tim puts on his best charming smile, is barely conscious when people start clapping his back and shaking his hand.

Halfway through the party, Tim listens to Lady Janette’s thesis of – of _what_ , exactly, he can’t remember. He’s more taken to Williams’ _Imperial March_ playing softly in the background by the band Alfred’s hired from Austria than listening to her talk.

She _is_ pretty, he supposes. Curls of dark brown hair, long and soft-looking that reaches past her waist. A beautiful pastel coloured hairclip shaped like butterfly with seven pearls shines glimmers under the dim yellow light of the chandelier. The dress she wears is stunning, soft pink and baby blue, tight enough to push up her breasts enticingly, the silver cross necklace between her cleavages catching every eye in the room.

Not his type, though.

Her make-up is too thick, her lipstick too red, mascara overdone. She has good eyes, his preference actually. Emerald green, but the eyeliner makes them look blue and _boring_. The perfume she uses is too strong; the scent of roses coming off her in waves sickeningly.

He’s pretty sure if he looks closer, he’d find her breasts fake. But, Tim has manners. He’s a gentleman and it’s his birthday. So he excuses himself politely and goes to find an empty corner to lurk in.

Dick catches up to him, a hand on his elbow, pulling the shirt a bit it’s crumpled. Tim’s eyes narrow. “Careful,” he says. “It’s new, Alfred _won’t_ like it.”

Wisely, Dick lets go, grins wide. The content of his wine is sloshed up to the rim of the glass, so Tim carefully sips it empty, in case it stains his shirt. Dick is rambling about, something, with masks and costumes and pretty ladies and Damian’s costume, which is supposedly, brings out the colour of his eyes.

Tim nods accordingly, eyes flickering once a while, but feels guilty a few seconds later when he realises he’s doing the same thing he does to strangers to _Dick_. It’s not a good feeling.

Before Dick can notice he’s not actually paying attention, Conner strides toward them, looking gorgeous in a deep purple three-piece suit. His smile is bright and wide and gorgeous, and he’s looking at Tim like he’s – um.

Just, no. It’s not that – it’s not that Conner is _not_ gorgeous, because he is, he really is. The very definition of a good person, someone who comes up with books, but not really geeky and is very cool and sexy.

It’s – he’s not Tim’s type, is all.

(And to _think_ that Tim’s type is stubborn, foul-mouthed person with certain fixation on guns and violence, which _should not_ be so hot since, it’s _Tim_ ; he’s a fucking detective, for Christ’s sake.)

“Hey,” Conner says, the corner of his lips curling into a sweet bright smile. Tim smiles back.

Dick stops middle-rant, brows wiggling suggestively at Tim, Conner, then back to Tim. Conner flushes red. “It’s um, good party. You look, you look good Tim.” And Tim smiles wider, flashes his teeth, because it’s only _appropriate_.

“Nice to see you here, man.” Pipes Dick cheerfully, patting the other man on the shoulder. “So, what are you supposed to be tonight, Harlequin? That mask looks Sand’s.”

It does, Tim observes. For science.

The mask is black and sort of shaped in that Harlequin’s way, half-mask that doesn’t quite manage hides the brilliant blue of Conner’s eyes. Conner smiles at Dick, at Tim, says “Thanks, Dick. What are _you_ supposed to be?”

Conner’s question is directed at Tim, and Tim swallows as Dick finally, _finally_ takes the design of Tim’s mask properly with his eyes, a frown replaces the easy drunken smile he’s had.

“Yeah, Tim, what are _you_ supposed to be? It looks – some kind of bird?” he asks, leans in closer to _touch_ the red feathers sticking out the right side of his mask, and Tim flinches back, instinctively.

“It’s a Jaybird,” replies Tim quickly. Too quickly. “I, uh, I asked Alfred whether or not they came in red. Wikipedia says it does, and it’s. Interesting. Birthday parties, right?”

Realisation settles on Dick’s face slowly while Conner simply nods as if everything that comes out of Tim’s mouth is fact.

His adopted-brother’s face darkens considerably, tells them “I need a drink. Or two,” before leaving them for the glorious heaven that is glasses of red wine on the other side of the room.

Tim watches him go, stomping his feet all over the expensive marbles, shoving both Damian and Barbara out of his way. Conner looks baffled. “What was that all about?” he asks. Tim shrugs and puts his empty glass on a nearby table.

“Look, Conner, I’m a bit off my game right now. I’ve had too much to drink, so I need some time alone.” Conner turns to look at him now, the hurt on his face showing, but Tim can’t be bothered to feel guilty. His head is pounding, and it’s not the wine, he’s had more than two glasses before, he can handle.

Still, he pats Conner’s shoulder, before wrapping his arms around his best friend’s body in what possibly is the most awkward hug of the century. A sign of affection, of sorts.

Giving him one last smile – which he forever denies as _‘suggestive’_ in any sorts – Tim murmurs, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Conner nods again, slowly, dumbstruck. It makes Tim feeling so much better already. He leaves before Conner says anything else.

He makes his round and mingles for a couple of minutes, relishing in the better mood, waits for it to turn sour and all he wants is to punch someone’s pretentious face.

Neither Damian nor Bruce is looking better than he is, though, so Tim settles for tracing the line on a woman’s gloved palm, tells her sweet nothings until he gets bored.

Bruce’s is smiling suggestively to someone, but to practiced eye it’s clear he seriously considers getting out of the party by throwing his body, head-first, through the nearest window.

Dick being Dick is enjoying himself _immensely_ in the middle of the crowd. He seems to have forgotten about the whole mask thing with Conner. Tim takes that as a plus.

Fortunately, he finds the quiet corner he desperately _longs_ for. The lighting is slightly off, darker in this part of the room, and there is a room for coats right beside him. He’s considering getting inside and hides for the rest of the night, but Alfred won’t like that.

All the boys in the bat family are, obviously, more afraid of Alfred than Bruce; it’s somehow _hilarious_. Even _Jason_ is terrified, also deeply cares, of Alfred’s well-being more than Bruce.

Speaking of Jason. It’s. Tim _knew_ he won’t be here, invitation or not. He feels silly then, for sliding the grand masquerade party invitation into one of Jason’s safe-houses he’s tracked down for six tiring days, knowing he won’t yet _hoping_ he’ll be here tonight.

Tim slinks back into the shadow, and refuses to pout. Without him, the party goes just as well. Some people pause to give him a once-over, considering, which is normal, since he’s pretty sure if the guy – whoever he was – didn’t announce his arrival the first time, no one would recognized Tim under the crimson Jay-shaped half-mask.

It’s only a half-mask, but it does cover his face well, showing only his lips and the tip of his nose on display. Even his cheekbones are barely visible. Close to Conner’s Harlequin mask, though better.

Eighteen minutes later, he’s well off into his sixth glass of the evening, when a tall man dressed in red approaches him.

Tim doesn’t see his face. He predicts the stranger would look gorgeous. From the graceful way he carries himself, moving toward Tim, the visible muscles under all those layers of crimson – exactly similar to his own, only darker, almost black even – he feels _familiar_.

When he does look, however.

The first thing he sees, or more accurately _catches his eyes_ , is the mask he’s wearing. It’s only a quarter-half mask, covering a quarter half side of his face, red and plain and _shiny_. The mask doesn’t have feathers, or gemstones, or pearls. Just a simple mask without decoration whatsoever, doesn’t _mean_ to catch the eye.

Stranger’s eyes though. Dark green and intense, looking at Tim like he is something to be wary of, an equal, dangerous and threatening yet _so fucking hot at the same time_. Tim decides he’s had way too much to drink.

Stranger with Smouldering Eyes pauses right in front of Tim, toes touching, breath inches away from Tim’s face. It – _he_ smells like smoke and blood and _violence_ , and Tim nearly calls out for security, or screams _‘THERE’S A BLOODY MURDERER IN OUR MIDST’_ , when Stranger leans in _too close_ , too _intimate_ , and Tim sees it.

Patches of white hair, a full-blown Cheshire cat’s grin, two strong hands on either side of his head.

“Well, lookie here,” the man murmurs, voice deep and rough, causing the base of Tim’s spine to tingle.

Jason, _god_ , it really is _Jason_ , cocks his head to the side, caresses the side of his face gently, _lovingly_. Stops at the corner of Tim’s lips and rubs his thumb there. Tim’s lips part without his notice. Jason’s smirk is knife-sharp, dangerous.

 “Hello there, baby bird. You look quite lovely tonight,” Jason drawls, backs up – the warmth of his body leaving Tim’s side, and Tim _aches_ – bends down to _kiss the back of Tim’s hand_ , what the ever sodding _fuck_.

Eloquently, Tim questions, low yet embarrassingly hysterical, “What are you _doing_?” whilst his brain disintegrates. Jason blinks owlishly.  “Being courteous. I mean, that’s what everyone does, isn’t it?” his grip around Tim’s wrist is not tight, but it is firm enough he can’t get away and doesn’t loosen when Jason looks around the room. Stepping away, pulling Tim back along with him.

“You’re not supposed to be courteous when you congratulate someone on a birthday, Jason,” Tim grits out through clenched teeth. “You’re supposed to be courteous _when you want to court someone_.”

“Who says I’m congratulating you and not courting you?” with that, Jason wraps an arm around his waist, forcing Tim to clamp his free hand on Jason’s shoulder, their fingers tangled the entire way – and they’re dancing.

Not – they don’t slow-waltz their way to the middle, no. Jason dances like he fights, graceful coordinated limbs moving fast and quick, a bit rough but not too much that Tim can’t handle it, and Tim –

He may or may not have been melting the entire time. Watching Jason’s face, smiling down at him, being all charming and amused, perfect and everything Tim ever wants.

Inhaling deeply, Tim looks into Jason’s eyes, sways along with the music, and _lets everything go_.

He’s falling deeper than he’s ever been.

\--

By the time they’ve had enough of dancing – or, more like _Tim_ ’s had enough of dancing, while Jason kept moving despite having been through _six songs_ in a row, but then shrugged and followed Tim out of everyone’s way in the end – Tim is sitting on one of the classic red-velvet couches, a drink in hand, trying to catch his breath. Jason’s left him about three or four minutes ago, for another drink, maybe.

Everyone is too busy dancing, and Tim is glad, because it gives him time to regain the composure he’s lost after dancing with Jason. Being alone is much more preferable, anyway, as he has – well, _had_ – been spending most of his birthdays before getting adopted alone. Most of his friends have different opinion on the matter, and Tim _thinks_ he saw Allen and Conner swaying cheerfully in the middle of the dancer, grinning stupidly at each other.

It’s far too adorable for his taste, to be honest. Yet Tim finds himself smiling at the image they both create.

There is also a possibility that both Kory and Roy are present, since out of two hundred thirty-six people in the room, aside from Jason, Tim is the only one who wears red. Flashes of glossy red silk dress, wrapped snugly around slim-strong feminine feature, next to a man clad in phoenix-red suit. The pair stands out in the crowd, not only for the beautiful eye-catching clothes they’re wearing, but from the way they dance. Inhuman, one might say.

Plus, Kory’s scarlet hair and Roy’s naturally strawberry blonde are really hard to miss, these days. Tim is trying very hard not to stare at the flawless smooth skin of Kory’s exposed back, with the dress cut so low it reaches near her arse, when Roy’s eyes find his. And he _winks_. Tim flushes out of embarrassment, forcing the drink down his throat least he chokes and dies of shame.

Jason suddenly appears out of nowhere, looking pleased but not quite drunk, snatches the glass away from Tim’s hand. He places it carefully on the table behind an antique vase suspiciously similar to the artefacts of Medieval Era he now remembers by heart, for fun if nothing else, and seriously; _where_ did Alfred get all of these stuff is what crosses his mind first.

Followed by a mental (freak-out) alarm at the sight of Jason leaning back and tilting his hips, _very_ subtle, it might have been an _accident_ , which makes him look taller and more attractive than any human being aside from Dick should. And Dick is _very_ attractive. Tim is quite dizzy, head reeling, and trying not to swallow his tongue when he sees Jason’s spread legs.

Both his thighs and his everything look _fantastic_ in those pants, he must admit. It is possible Tim has drunk a little bit too much.

“I’ve got you something,” Jason drawls, voice rough and scratchy, not loud enough for anyone other than Tim to hear. “Got it a few days ago while we were doing a job in Cairo. Wrapped all pretty and shit, but I forgot to bring it here.”

His tone suggests nothing but casual flippancy, like it doesn’t matter, as if he’s talking about the twelve o’clock news on the telly or Alfred’s delicious cheese-cream pancakes. But, Tim is familiar enough with the concept of flirting, even the most subtle one. He’s had women offering him sex, sometimes even men. The reason he declined them all is either he’s not in the mood or they’re really not his type, however attractive.

Coming from Jason though – who is more than attractive, _definitely_ Tim’s type, all the psychopathic obsession of killing him aside, and also being very gentlemanly and smug about everything tonight – he thinks he can pass out, if he doesn’t want it so much. He’s a breath away from doing so, honestly.

Shifting, Tim uncrosses his leg where it’s thrown over his left thigh. Sprawls lazily all over the couch as he looks up at Jason, challenging and unconsciously coy, and manages a fortunately not-shaky reply, “And I suppose this present is at your place?” because it’s only polite to retaliate.

Jason’s smirk is a tell-tale of how pleased he is at Tim’s reaction, which confirms Tim’s suspicion of him being slightly nervous or self-conscious concerning what his approach toward Tim is supposed to be, which is completely ridiculous.

But then again, normal people would never, _ever_ want to sleep with a guy who tried – _tries_ – killing them on regular basis, however attractive. It just doesn’t happen. Tim knows there is something wrong with him, he just never considers that something to be “Emotionally Attracted to Emotionally Unstable and Violent Vigilante”.

It’s a thing. A Jason _esque_ sort of thing.

“You learn fast, Babybird,” Jason says. “Maybe we really are going to get through tonight’s original plan, after all.” And the way he says it, the way his eyes are clouded and his fingers are flexing in anticipation, sends hot flare of arousal through Tim’s entire being.

“What would that plan be?” he asks, completely curious and entranced by the mischievous spark in Jason’s dark-emerald eyes, his amused smile that softens every sharp-edge of his face, the hint of teeth behind his thin-chapped lips.

Most of the people Tim’s ever kissed have smooth, glossy lips – the contour soft and plump and just _perfect_. Tim wonders how Jason will taste, later; if he’s going to taste as stale as the cig Tim often sees trapped between his lips (when Jason’s not looking, obviously, _for reasons_ ) or coppery-blood from the torn skin of his lower lip. He wonders if Jason tastes like the well-aged scotch Alfred is giving out for free tonight, and he _wants_.

He wants to climb all over Jason like a tree, in front of all these people he can’t remember from faces alone, wants to force his way in with his tongue, wherever it goes, Tim really doesn’t mind. His mind is suggesting all these places of where his tongue can stick into, and it is being very creative now, Tim can’t be bothered to feel ashamed when his slacks grow impossibly tight.

Jason smiles, polite and sweet, the way Bruce does sometimes in front of adorable spoiled rich kid trying to hug his leg. “It involves a very particular ring that doesn’t wrap around your pretty finger, among others. Specifically around your cock, to be frank, but,” he pauses, offers his hand out to Tim who is still trying not to come in his pants like the hopeless teenager he is at the absolute filthy way Jason says _cock_. “Right now, I’m being courteous. Frank is not an option.”

“How compelling, tell me more.” Tim blurts out; stupidly aroused at the hand Jason rests against the arch of his spine, the heat seeping through his clothes.

Jason’s laugh is genuine, and his eyes are dark as he looks at Tim. “In a while,” he says. “Once I get you out of these clothes, I will.” Then he manhandles Tim out of the building, not before slipping a card into one of the vases with _‘To Alfred (and Brucie)’_ written on the surface.

\--

Tim does not remember a day where he ever gets on his knees – just his knees, with his wrists bound to the headboard of Jason’s bed using the silk crimson tie and whatnot – writhing and moaning, rocking back on his haunches as Jason penetrates him using three fingers, all wet from the lube, sliding thick and easy and _godfuckingdammit_ into him.

He may or may not have cried and cursed in every single language he knows at some point. Jason doesn’t comply, not because he doesn’t care, because the fucker simply _loves_ to make him _desperate_ for it.

Although, Tim notes with interest, Jason’s grunt sounds louder when Tim swears in Russian. The three fingers buried deep in his arse curl against his prostate when Tim whines and begs in French, and he licks a stripe down the length of Tim’s cock while still fucking his fingers in when Tim rocks back and grumbles all sorts of filth in Latin.

It’s – honestly, it’s the hottest thing Tim has ever discovered. So Jason likes his partner smart. Tim can be smart; Tim is the very manifestation of _smart_ itself. He wonders what Jason will do if Tim recites everything he can remember from his Biology class mid-fucking. Whether or not he’ll go faster, or harder, or if his fingers would press so deep, the bruises won’t fade until next month.

Right now, Tim really hates the tie around his wrists. Jason is no idiot, and he knows how to make the perfect knot that will even make the best of them bow down in _shame_. Tim doesn’t think he can think of a tie and not remember of what Jason has done to him, is doing to him, holding Tim’s hips in place, nipping at the sensitive skin where his thigh and arse meets, wrapping his lips around Tim’s sack and laughing as he does it; the vibration making Tim cries and whines for _more_.

He’s panting so hard he thinks cardiac arrest is the _least_ of his problems. Tim’s cock is flushed and heavy, rock-hard between his thighs like it’s never been before, and it’s frustrating because _he can’t fucking come_. There is a ninety-nine point nine percent chance that he can, if Jason hadn’t _actually_ gone through with the plan of wrapping the silver band around the base of his cock, like he promised, and Tim is torn between wanting this to last and fucking over already, because it’s so good, it’s so fucking _good_ , he’s a sobbing greedy mess before the real fucking even starts.

Jason groans softly behind him, lips sliding down his thighs, where he sucks another guaranteed-large hickey. “Christ, Babybird, look at you. You’re so beautiful, so _gorgeous_ , _God_ – I wish I can tape this.” He pulls his fingers out, slides them in again, crooks all three right against Tim’s prostate, and Tim’s body tightens and _spasms_ in response.

“I’ll let you,” Tim replies. “I’ll let you, Jason, just – fucking _get it in_ –“

And Jason swears loudly, the hand holding Tim’s down leaves to palm his cock, which is thick and so pretty, Tim wonders if Jason will let him suck it later – after. If Jason would fuck his mouth and tell him he’s doing so good, and Tim _can’t_.

“Should’ve known you’d be all demanding and no begging, even in bed,” Jason tells him, without heat and laughing at the world at large. Tim would protest that he’s done enough begging in the past twenty minutes, that he’s stretched open and would really love to have Jason’s cock inside him now, seeing that it’s his _birthday_ but.

But Jason is pulling his fingers out, which in turn makes Tim whine, until the hot heavy grit of something else – _definitely_ Jason’s cock, _thank god_ – pushes in, slow and deliberate, it’s the only sensation Tim can truly _feel_. He doesn’t feel his nails digging sharp and painful into his palm, or his bleeding lower lip where bites at so hard, only Jason pushing into him until he bottoms out – and Tim _sighs_ in relief.

It’s not long until Jason is rocking into him, sharp slow motion that presses against his prostate, leaving Tim quivering and moaning soon enough. He tries to reach down to take the ring off, because it’s too long now, he’s been doing so good, it’s a _torture_ if Jason doesn’t take it off in the next five seconds. But then the tie doesn’t give, and Tim is truly _sobbing_ into the pillow, whimpering nonsense and trying to get Jason fucking him deeper, harder, _faster_.

“ _Christ_ ,” Jason grits out, pulling Tim’s thighs closer and roughly apart. Shifting to thrust his cock back in the same time Tim’s arse is shoved back. “I’m not going to – _long_ ,” he continues, incoherently. And then he’s wrapping a hand around Tim’s cock, sliding the ring out and off, pulling back and slamming back in so hard Tim sees _volcano_ , and Tim is coming so hard it’s _painful_. Clenching around Jason’s cock until Jason stills, filling Tim up with his come, and the first thing that comes to his mind is: _they’re not wearing a condom_.

Something he’d like to point out, absolutely, some time sooner. After his brain reboots. Which probably would take until – morning, due to Jason’s sexual prowess. Tim is impressed.

As Jason undoes the tie bounding Tim’s wrists, Tim looks up and notices that he’s still wearing the mask on. The dim orange light from the candle on the nightstand (Tim is _definitely_ filing a complaint against the Electricity Power Plant later) makes the sight of Jason’s (glorious, _glorious_ ) body plus the mask a bit... sentimental.

(Romantic.)

“You’re still wearing the mask,” Tim says, dumbly. Jason snorts, and rubs his fingers against the pulse of Tim’s freed wrists. “So are you,” he points out, amusedly, and Tim flushes all over again.

“Is this going to be a thing?” Tim asks, while Jason pulls his cheeks apart, fingers pushing past his sensitive rim, and Tim whines shakily in response. Jason presses a kiss on his forehead before cleaning them both, throwing the blanket off as he does so, then wraps the thick comforter around them both.

Tim never pegs Jason as a very cuddly person. But then he thought Jason’s kiss would be like tasting smoke or vodka, instead it tasted like mint and tea and everything sugar. He also thinks ahead, thus the fucking on the pile of blankets on the bed as to not staining the sheet, preparing the comforter in advance, yet he forgot about the condom.

“We didn’t use protection,” Tim says, dazedly. “Oh my _god_.”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone since I was resurrected.” Jason says easily. “Well, there was that one time, but it was safe.” He then proceeds to yawn tiredly against the side of Tim’s head, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “So unless you’ve like, screwing around recently, then we’ll be fine.”

And Tim – _relaxes_. Which, _how could he_. The fact that he relaxes makes Jason laugh though, warm and fond and sleepy, with a murmured “I knew it” and Tim thinks.

He thinks it’s going to be a thing.

(Roy giving them looks, Kory smirking behind their backs. Jason making Tim breakfast and giving him his present – five ancient books from Egypt, books he took from a dead body Kory might have accidentally killed – kissing him good morning and telling him they’re dating and Tim is not going to cheat on him with anyone else.)

He _knows_ it’s going to be a thing.

(Roy’s present is a framed picture of them dancing during last night’s party.

Jason hangs the photo above his bed and never takes it down.)

\--


End file.
